What Matters Is
by shootsomething
Summary: Clint takes his job seriously, more seriously than anything he's ever done before. He will not fail because failure means the end. This is a teaser for a bigger idea, which is an avengers revolution!au. If this garners attention, I'll work on and subsequently publish the larger plot that accompanies this; if you want more, be sure to tell me. OT6. Most closely resembles MCU.


**First of all, I obviously do not own the Avengers or really any part of Marvel. This is a teaser of sorts, which means that I'm using you guys as a beta audience to see if I should put in the work to flesh out the bigger idea this is a part of. If you would be interested in reading more of this world, in having it make more sense and become a much larger fic with a central plot, then review and tell me so. The idea that I have in my head will take a lot of effort to put together, and I wanted to know if there'd be an audience for it before attempting so. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this.**

Home is a shabby apartment building nestled among dozens of others, mismatched roofs and grimy brickwork. The electricity is spotty at best, but the neighbors mind their own business and that makes it worth it. No one asks questions because everyone has secrets. Home is a two bedroom space with a rickety balcony, overlooking smaller buildings with even shabbier accommodations. Clint likes it here. It's not quiet, not even close, but it's anonymous. Stories below them the city rushes on, filled with traffic, people, smoke filled streets and crowded alleyways intersecting in every direction.

He used to stand out on the balcony and watch as everyone else went about their lives, but he doesn't have the time anymore; life got in the way. Most days, he comes home late and scattered with bruises. He's too tired to do much more than drop into bed and sleep, trying to get as much rest as possible before his routine repeats itself. There is no such thing as leisure anymore.

Today is no different. He hasn't broken any bones, didn't get shot or stabbed or blown up. He isn't bleeding (the cut on his lip stopped leaking hours ago), isn't injured internally, doesn't have a head wound. It's a good day, all things considered. His life isn't in danger, and that fact alone makes the bruises barely matter. They overlap the bruises of yesterday, the layers of contusions something he has learned to live with. He is perpetually sore, always looks like he's gone a few rounds with a compactor. Tony used to tease him about it, once. Not anymore, not since- well. Not since a year ago when Clint came home more bruises than not, and the bleeding under his skin wouldn't stop. No one had found anything funny, then.

This is nothing in comparison, nothing he can't handle. Clint can move easily enough, muscles sore and tight but still as strong as ever. He shuffles his way up each flight of stairs, hugging the wall as little as possible. It was unanimously agreed upon that they live up high, despite the absence of an elevator, and most days no one regrets it. It's worth the extra work to have a modicum more of privacy, to be just that much higher above the hell that rages on the streets some nights. Tonight, though. Tonight he has to sit down on the fourth floor and take a break, because his legs are screaming and his abs are threatening mutiny if he doesn't stop.

It takes him twenty minutes longer than it usually would to get home, but no one is up to notice. The sun is long gone, so it doesn't come as a surprise that everyone has gone to bed. Quietly, he locks the door behind him and takes off his shoes. The apartment is dark, and he drags himself into the kitchen based on memory alone. He doesn't sneak, but he doesn't make unnecessary noise, either. This is a routine that is familiar to him.

The neon display of the clock on the stove (off by three hours again) provides just enough light for him to navigate the cupboards for his glass, filling it with water and draining it in one go. Training always makes him so thirsty. Nothing like strenuous exercise to work up an appetite. Checking for leftovers is really tempting, but today was Thor's turn to cook, and Clint's never really gotten over the fish head thing. Besides, it's late. Might as well just wait for morning.

Scratching idly at the sweat on the back of his neck, he pads quietly into the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror hardly looks like him, drawn and exhausted and mottled with color. He didn't know the bruises were quite so visible, this time. They're going to give him shit for it, he thinks with a wry grin, and turns on the shower as hot as it'll go (in this building, that's not all that hot). Muscles stretch painfully and joints pop as he undresses, leaning his naked skin against the cool tile of the wall. The chill is soothing, a salve for overheated, overworked flesh.

When the tiles grow warm with body heat and his muscles tense back up, he maneuvers himself under the spray of water, sagging against the wall. Part of him regrets committing to bathing himself, exhaustion winning over cleanliness, but he knows that he'd never hear the end of it if he got into bed covered in dirt, sweat and blood. It's better to wash off the grime and gore while letting the warm water soothe over his aching muscles. The sheets of their bed get bloodied often enough, so why add to it if he can still move enough to clean himself off?

Clint instead spends his time in the shower thinking over the days training, how every new bruise he has speaks of a mistake. He thinks about the people who will die if he makes those same mistakes during an actual job, the people who will lose their lives if he's too slow, too stupid, not strong enough to do his job. There is a fragile, infantile rebellion that will crumble beneath them all if he so much as misses. As blood and dirt wash down the drain, he thinks of the people sleeping in the other room, and how they are just as important as he. They are the cogs deep in the underbelly of the revolutionary machine, essential and hidden deep within. They are the secret weapons, the ace up the proverbial sleeve. They cannot fail.

The water begins to run cold and Clint curses softly, knowing that there won't be anywhere near enough hot water for everyone in the morning. They won't blame him, not when he's so beaten, but it's no excuse. He should have made sure there would be enough. It's one of the many ways that they take care of each other. He dries off and forgoes dressing, all his clothes sweaty or bloody and not worth putting back on without a wash. Casting one last look at the bruised spectre in the mirror, Clint makes his way into the bedroom.

The room is quiet save for the soft snores and even softer breathing of the five other occupants. Clint can't help but crack a smile as he slides into bed, shimmying under the covers and making himself comfortable against the line of Tony's back. He can hear them shift, getting comfortable again in their semi-wakefulness. He knows that not a single person in this room is capable of a deep sleep anymore, knows that they're all aware of his return home. Clint would give anything to come in and see everyone sound asleep, relaxed and happy under the weight of the world. That sort of thing is impossible now. They just don't live in the right kind of world.

He supposes it doesn't matter. After all, this is their home. Clint closes his eyes, listening to the slight catch in Steve's breathing as he snores, the quiet timbre of Natasha on the other side of the bed. Thor rumbles softly from beside Tony, and Clint knows Bruce is nestled between Steve and Natasha, like he is every night, snoring just as quietly as Steve.

There will be questions when they wake, like _what happened to make you so bruised_, and _where else are you injured_, but they don't bother him. The questions are as much of the fixture as the rickety dining table, the threadbare sofa, the huge bed they spent half their savings on. He'll answer the questions like he always does, but they won't matter to him. Not in the lazy sprawl of the morning, before the rest of the world filters in.

Someone will probably notice the clock, and maybe they'll care enough about the time to fix it, or maybe they won't. Maybe they'll just make toast and burn the coffee like they always do, and Clint will stretch his legs out over someone's lap, laughing quietly as they inspect his bruises for the hundredth time. They will go out to risk their lives, like they always do, but that won't matter either. Not really, at least when Clint thinks about it. What matters, late at night in a bed with his family, is the present.

Whenever Clint comes back covered in bruises, when Natasha spends days without contacting anyone, when Tony and Bruce and Steve and Thor all come home battered, and beaten, and bloody as hell, it doesn't matter. They patch each other up and they lie in their bed, a mess of bodies and heartbeats and uneven breathing, and they just exist.

In the darkness before night turns to day, they can just be happy.

Clint can imagine Natasha laughing at the messages they used to leave on the fridge in magnets, can see Bruce drinking tea on the balcony, watching as strangers weave in and out of the close packed streets. He can remember the smells of smoggy air and tiny restaurants, exhaust fumes and charcoal and gas. Tony used to fix things, too. Clint knows he would have fixed the wiring in the apartment, if he had the chance. Steve would draw, sitting on the roof and immortalizing this place that they call home, like he might forget if he doesn't have it on paper. Clint can appreciate the sentiment; too many things change far too quickly, these days.

He can close his eyes and pretend that everything is as it was, when it's sometime after three and everyone is asleep. Their jobs are difficult, dangerous, demanding. Their jobs are their lives. The only thing that makes it worth it, Clint thinks, is this: no matter what happens each day, no matter what the future holds, it'll all be okay as long as they have each other. Because that, that is what matters.


End file.
